


fire for a heart

by otherwords



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-13
Updated: 2017-03-13
Packaged: 2018-10-04 01:29:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10264100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/otherwords/pseuds/otherwords
Summary: The thing is, up until five minutes ago, they’d been having the same night. Tom had caught Mike’s arm on the way out of the locker room after the second intermission, just a tiny moment of shared air, and streaky heat had chased its way through Mike’s belly. They were twenty regulation minutes away from some celebratory drinks with the team and then home to the emptiness of their apartment.Now, though — Mike doesn’t know. Tom went into the locker room with a match penalty and a look of disbelief so comically baffled Mike could see it from his place on the bench.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I started this the night Tom Wilson got a game misconduct against the Sens in the 2015-16 season (so quite a while ago). I've been working on it long enough that some things no longer make sense. For example, when I started writing this, Justin Williams was being called Willy, though by the end of the season, he was Stick or Mr. Perfect. (What a totally chill nickname, Washington Capitals.) Additionally, I no longer believe Tom Wilson is capable of complex emotions or worthy of Mike Latta's time and affections. *shrug* So much can happen in a season!
> 
> For C. Sorry it took me so long to finish this.
> 
> EDIT: I do not remember why I was so pissed off with Tom when I published this lol.

The thing is, up until five minutes ago, they’d been having the same night. Tom had caught Mike’s arm on the way out of the locker room after the second intermission, just a tiny moment of shared air, and streaky heat had chased its way through Mike’s belly. They were twenty regulation minutes away from some celebratory drinks with the team and then home to the emptiness of their apartment.

Now, though — Mike doesn’t know. Tom went into the locker room with a match penalty and a look of disbelief so comically baffled Mike could see it from his place on the bench.

The game gets a little choppier in the last few minutes, gets away from them just a bit, but the clock runs down and they keep the lead. When the final buzzer sounds, someone claps Mike hard on the back and he barely feels it, because they just won and he had a fucking multipoint night. They call his name for second star, and he skates out, dazed and fiercely excited.

The media scrum is better than usual, because he has a goal to talk about, but he catches a tiny bit of Tom’s interview and that takes the buzzy, warm edge off of things. By the time Mike is showered and changed and done with the press, Alzy has organized a group heading out. Tom is standing at the back, one hand shoved deep into his pocket, gaze fixed on his phone.

Mike sidles up beside him, close enough that Tom could say something if he wanted to, but Tom doesn’t, so Mike lets him keep fucking around on his phone and doesn’t press it. The guys head out to the parking lot together and Tom peels off at the last second, fingertips ghosting over the inside of Mike’s elbow.

“I’ll meet you at home,” he says. “Go ahead.”

“Wait, what —” Mike says. “I can just come home with you right now.”

“No, you should celebrate,” Tom says, not meeting Mike’s eyes. “Just go, okay? I’ll see you later.”

Willy tugs on Mike’s arm, and he should — he should follow Tom, maybe, but Willy’s got one insistent hand on Mike’s shoulder, says, “Come  _ on _ , one goal makes you too good for us?” and Mike’s getting dragged along with the group before he’s really made up his mind about what he wants.

“It was two points,” Mike says, a little numbly, but it gets lost in the crush of shower-damp teammates.

The bar they end up in is hot and loud and just like every other bar they ever end up in. Someone buys Mike a drink, and then another; some of the guys with kids head out. Schmidty is telling a story that’s only saved from being completely boring because Schmidty does everything with commitment and a lot of acrobatic facial expressions, and Willy is doing something childish and borderline obscene with a cocktail napkin.

This is not really how Mike wanted the evening to go. He pulls his phone out to text Tom and there’s already a waiting message. He thumbs it open, taking another pull of his beer, and squints at the screen:  **hope you’re having fun**

Mike frowns and types out a reply:  **would be better if you were here**

He keeps his phone on the table, out of Burky’s spill radius, but Tom doesn’t text back. Mike checks the timestamp on Tom’s first text: he only missed it by ten minutes. It’s not like Tom could have fallen asleep in that time. Maybe he’s taking a shower. Maybe he’s ignoring Mike.

Mike swallows hard. Tom can’t be — he can’t be  _ jealous _ . That isn’t how this works. A tiny thrill of anger shivers through Mike’s chest, that Tom isn’t talking to him, that he isn’t even here right now. Mike doesn’t get this every night. Fuck, he doesn’t even get to  _ play _ every night.

He finishes his beer, already feeling bad for thinking that. Tom got thrown out of the game for something he shouldn’t have. He has a right to be frustrated.

Alex taps his fingers on the table in front of Mike, leaning across the table to reach. “You want another drink?”

Mike shakes his head. “I’m probably gonna head out actually.”

Willy puts his chin in his hands and bats his eyelashes at Mike. “To your husband?”

“Fuck off,” Mike says, scooting toward the mouth of the booth.

Willy cackles and turns his attention to someone more willing to entertain him.

Mike catches a cab outside the bar and texts Tom to let him know that he’ll be home soon. The cab ride is dark and quiet. Washington is lit up brilliantly, boosted by the proximity of Christmas, and Mike watches the lights go by, trying to hold on to the warm flush of beer and hockey.

When he lets himself into the apartment, Tom is sitting on the couch in the darkness, slumped down, legs kicked out over the cushions. There’s a movie playing, volume turned nearly all the way down, but his attention is focused on his phone. A mostly empty beer sits on the floor beside him.

Mike hangs up his jacket and comes to stand at the end of the couch. He doesn’t know what to do when things get like this, all tight and strained, and he hates it. He’s only three years older than Tom; sometimes he can feel every one of them.

Tom doesn’t look up for a long minute, but then he drops his phone onto the cushion beside his leg and holds out both hands. Mike goes gratefully, easily.

Tom pulls him down, and Mike trips a little, digs an elbow into Tom’s side by accident. Tom shifts to adjust them and bring their mouths together. He kisses like he has something to prove, and Mike is reminded of a year ago, the uncertain navigation of the beginning of their relationship, a lot of overeager making out on the couch and not talking about it.

Now, though — now they should be able to talk about it.

Mike pulls back and Tom looks up at him, all half-lidded eyes and mussed hair, grinning sharply. He gives his hips a strategic roll underneath of Mike and Mike presses a hand into his shoulder.

“You okay?” he says.

Tom’s grin fades. “Yeah,” he says. “I mean — it’s bullshit, but what else am I supposed to do.”

Mike shrugs, relenting a little. He brushes Tom’s hair away from his face with one hand. “What happened?”

Tom mouth quirks down, then straight again. “You wanna see it?”

“Yeah, sure.”

Tom drags his laptop off the coffee table and opens the clip. They watch it together, Mike tucked under Tom’s arm, the laptop balanced on his knees.

“Bullshit,” Mike repeats, after it’s played through. He jumps the video back to the hit and watches it again before closing the laptop. “They’re not going to suspend you for that.”

“Hopefully not. But they already kicked me out of a game for it.”

Mike sighs, a big breath out through his teeth. “You’ve got a bad reputation, Wilson.”

Tom laughs, and presses his face into the crook of Mike’s shoulder. “You like it, though. Dating a bad boy? Come on. Tell me that doesn’t get you hot,” he says against Mike’s skin.

“I don’t know why I like you,” Mike says. Tom kisses his neck and he shivers.

“I know why I like  _ you _ ,” Tom says, letting the grin creep back onto his face.

Mike can’t help his smile.

“What a night.” Tom cups Mike’s face, pulls him in closer. “What a goal. You should be out celebrating.”

“It’s not the same without you,” Mike says, ducking his head to kiss Tom’s jaw. “I wanted you to be there.”

“I didn’t want to ruin it for you,” Tom says. He curls his fingers into the hair at the nape of Mike’s neck.

“You can’t,” Mike says, letting Tom kiss him again. His torso is twisted to reach Tom’s mouth, so he swings a leg over Tom’s thighs to put himself back into Tom’s lap. This time, he rocks down into it when Tom rolls his hips up.

“Ah, shit, Mike,” Tom breathes.

“Yeah?” Mike says.

“Uh huh,” Tom says. “C’mere.”

For all the trouble that he gets up to with it, Tom is good with his mouth. He kisses Mike until he’s dizzy and hard, then dumps him backwards off his lap and sinks to his knees in front of the couch, tugging Mike’s legs so he can kneel between them. Mike helps him with the button on his slacks, pushes his pants down his thighs, and then everything else is replaced by the wet heat of Tom’s mouth.

Mike shivers into it and runs his fingers back through Tom’s hair. He’d always liked Tom’s hair, but especially likes it mussed under his palms as Tom mumbles little noises against his dick.

It doesn’t take long. Mike is too high strung and he likes Tom’s mouth too much. He grunts out a warning, but Tom just looks up at him, gaze wicked, and swallows Mike’s orgasm down. Mike huffs, something between appreciative and overwhelmed.

Tom pulls off and kisses the top of his thigh. “Wanna watch?” he says, low and rough.

Mike’s stomach swoops. “Fuck,” he manages. “Yep.”

Tom hasn’t stopped grinning. “Take your shirt off,” he says, standing and shedding his own clothes. He climbs into Mike’s lap and palms himself, lazy and anticipatory, pushes the head of his dick against Mike’s stomach and laughs when Mike’s muscles jump.

He strokes himself slowly at first, but speeds up when he leans in to kiss Mike. He comes, gripping Mike’s hip with his free hand and leaving white fingerprints on Mike’s skin.

After, they clean up in comfortable silence. Mike dumps their discarded clothing unceremoniously into the laundry basket and follows Tom into the shower. They make out under the water until it threatens to go cold and end up crashed on the couch, only sort of watching a rerun of a movie they’ve both seen before.

Mike threads his fingers into Tom’s damp hair and tugs him into a slow kiss. Pulling back, he says, “You’re gonna be okay.”

Tom smiles at him and wraps his arms more firmly around Mike’s waist. “I know.”

**Author's Note:**

> Title's from "Drag Me Down" by One Direction, because of course it is.


End file.
